


can't replace my blood.

by katarama



Series: leave this blue neighborhood. [13]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Back to School, College, Coming Out, Demiromantic Character, Flashbacks, Friendship, M/M, Marijuana, Post-Draft, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 09:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: When hockey is in full swing and when Jack looks to his other wing, to the other end of his line, it’s never the familiar face he wants it to be.  When he goes home to Montreal, he drives to get gas and remembers slushies in the afternoon sun and kissing in the back of Jack’s car and hanging out in the park and going down easy for Kent in his bed, getting a break from his head and letting someone else take care of the big worries for a while.Kenny is everywhere in that city, everywhere in his home.  This year, worse than ever.





	can't replace my blood.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **If you're new to this series, start[HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10586022).**

**August 2012**

 

 

It takes approximately five minutes from the moment Jack texts saying he’s back on campus to when there’s a knock on his door.

“Brah,” Shitty says, practically tackling Jack into a tight hug as soon as Jack cracks the door to see who it is.  “It’s good to see you back in one piece.  How was break?”

“Fine,” Jack says.  If Shitty notices Jack’s lack of energy, he doesn’t say anything.  He also doesn’t say anything about the way Jack relaxes into his hug, the way Jack reciprocates and pulls Shitty in just a little bit tighter than usual.  “Nice seeing the family.”

“Still a little rough being back in Montreal?” Shitty says, all too knowingly.

“It’s easier than it used to be,” Jack says.  He’s tired after the trip down, but he knows from all of Shitty’s texts over break that, of the two of them, his break was the less eventful of the two.  “You survive seeing the relatives?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Shitty says emphatically, in that dramatic tone that Jack didn’t know what to do with at first.  He finally lets go of Jack and collapses backwards onto Jack’s bed.  “Saddle up, bro, I have some stories for you.”

“Haha, go for it,” Jack says, and Shitty doesn’t need any more prompting than that.  Jack hears about Shitty’s terrible grandparents and the drama with his cousin and his dad showing up unannounced for his mom’s birthday party.

Jack unpacks his luggage while Shitty talks, Shitty’s hands waving dramatically in the air as he stares up at the ceiling and rambles.  Jack tosses in a comment or two at the appropriate moments, but mostly he just listens.

It’s weird to think that this is what Jack finds comforting, now.  A ranting, possibly (probably) high hockey bro who uses more four-syllable words than anyone else Jack has ever met.

It is comforting, though.  Jack finds himself laughing as he folds his clothes, Shitty crowing triumphantly at the sound.  

“I knew you were gonna miss me.  Boston was sad without you, you handsome motherfucker,” Shitty says.  “One of these breaks you’ve gotta stay in town.  You can do Thanksgiving break with me and my mom, meet the only member of the Shitty fam worth knowing.”

“I did miss you,” Jack says.  He closes his drawer and heads over to plop down on the bed next to Shitty.  He’s not making any promises about Thanksgiving break, and he may stay anyway just to catch up on work and get some ice time in.

“Of course you did,” Shitty replies, patting Jack’s head and ruffling his hair.  

Jack amends his earlier thought when his nose starts to itch just from being next to Shitty.  

Shitty is definitely high.

* * *

 

It took Jack a long time to know what to make of Shitty B. Knight.

Jack didn’t connect with many members of the hockey team very early on.  He got to know the head coach and assistant coaches right away, and he built a basic working relationship with his captain.  Adjusting to college was a lot more than he expected, though, and he spent the first weeks of school adapting to his new schedule and to new places and to new people.

He didn’t actually properly meet Shitty through hockey first, though.

Shitty showed up in Jack’s room unannounced the first week of school frog year, before Jack learned the importance of locking his door at night.  Jack was jolted awake when his door cracked open unexpectedly, because his roommate had given him a vague “eh, maybe” when Jack asked if he was going to be back that night, which Jack was learning quickly usually meant no.

The stranger, Shitty, reeked of pot so strongly that Jack could smell it all the way from his bed.  He also had part of a leaf in his hair, and he talked like he thought he was whispering when he really, really wasn’t.

“Where’s your roommate, brah?” he asked Jack, looking around at the empty room.  “He never showed by the Pond.”

“Um,” Jack said.  He was under his covers and was wearing his pajamas, because it was past midnight, and Jack has a sleeping schedule he sticks to, for his hockey and for his mental health.  “Out?”

“Must be great, being out.  Out in the world,” Shitty said, staring at Jack like he’d just said something profound instead of largely nonsensical.  “Academia’s shitty, man.”

“Okay,” Jack said slowly. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Yeah, good call, man.  Didn’t mean to bust in, could’ve been spending some time with yourself, if you know what I mean.  That was shitty of me.  That was me, Shitty.  Shitty Knight.  Nice to meet you, tell your roommate he’s a dipshit.”

Jack didn’t have much time to process what had just happened before Shitty was saying peace out and closing the door behind him, and in the morning, Jack thought that maybe it might have been a dream.

He doesn’t see Shitty for a few weeks, after that.  He goes to class and calls his parents and plays hockey.  They have a handful of smaller, unofficial practice sessions on the ice in small groups, but there are rules in the NCAA about when their first official practice can be.  

When Jack shows up for the first official day of practice and sees one Shitty Knight there in the locker room, looking comfortable and joking around one of the captains, Jack is surprised.  He doesn’t remember Shitty from when he came for the Taddy Tour, though he guesses he didn’t really have a reason to at the time.  Now, though, after one meeting, Shitty slaps Jack on the back and talks about Jack’s roommate and acts like this is all a perfectly normal occurrence.

Jack is grateful for it in that Shitty isn’t staring at him and whispering like everyone else on the team, at least.  Jack doesn’t understand Shitty, doesn’t understand this loud and obnoxious hockey player who gets excited about Hazeapalooza rumors he’s heard and who seems entirely too comfortable talking to other people while mostly undressed in the locker room.  

They’re stuck together as roommates for roadies, and Jack learns that it isn’t just in the locker room where Shitty is used to excessive nakedness.  It makes Jack feel a little weird, at first.  Plus, Shitty spends even more time talking than he spends chilling out without clothes, and his voice is so loud that it takes up every ounce of space Shitty is in.  Jack still doesn’t know what his actual first name is, because he insists that it’s Shitty, and the roster and Shitty’s ID just have it abbreviated “B. Knight.”  

And, if that weren’t enough as it was, Jack does not understand the way Shitty plays hockey, at all.  Shitty is far from the best on the team, far from first line material.  It’s obvious he’s played competitively before, because he wouldn’t be on the team if he hadn’t, and because he’s a really solid, consistent player when he’s focusing.  But Shitty doesn’t play hockey like a lot of the people Jack is used to.  Shitty plays hockey like it’s always been a fun thing, like he spent more time fucking around with friends on the ice than playing like his life depended on it.  Jack knows that there are some people playing just for the scholarship, or just because they love it.  But NCAA hockey takes up so much time and dedication and practice, and Jack can’t possibly think of it as a “for fun” kind of pastime.  Even here, even when Jack is living his backup plan life playing on a college hockey team in the _ECAC_ , that mentality baffles him.  

But Jack slowly starts gravitating towards Shitty, anyway, if only because he doesn’t treat Jack like he’s anything remarkable, for better or worse, doesn’t act like the name plastered on the back of Jack’s jersey means anything to him at all.  It takes Jack a very, very, very long time before he feels comfortable asking Shitty about it.  

“Of course I know who your dad is,” Shitty says.  “He’s Bad Bob, who the fuck doesn’t know?”

“Then why…” Jack starts.

“Why don’t I treat you like a zoo animal?” Shitty asks.  Jack shrugs helplessly, and Shitty pats him on the back.  “Because my old man was in the C-suite of a hedge fund that got shut down for accounting fraud.  Doesn’t make me anything like him.  You’re your own person, you know?  And, so what, you had to go to Plan B.  I don’t know your life, man.  And what the shit does that matter, anyway?  You’re allowed to fuck up spectacularly a couple times in your own right.”

Hearing Shitty talk about that way, about Jack fucking up, should be more distressing than anything else.  But it isn’t.  It is nice, hearing him not mince words, hearing him be both refreshingly honest and open with Jack and also acknowledging that he doesn’t actually know what happened.

And it is also kind of eerie, hearing Shitty put it that way.  Some of it almost sounds like something Jack’s therapist had said once, in more polite terms and with a lot less cursing.

“Thank you,” Jack says tentatively.  “I appreciate that.”

“No problem, Jack,” Shitty says, and Jack thinks it’s the most serious he’s ever seen Shitty off the ice during a game.  “If you ever need a break from all that fuckery, just let me know.”

“I will,” Jack says, and somehow, he thinks he actually means it.

* * *

 

When Shitty is done talking about how determined he is to start growing out his flow starting this year, the room falls silent.  Jack is starting to feel how long his day was really hitting him, but he doesn’t want to tell Shitty to leave, Shitty’s presence more settling than not.

“Really, though,” Shitty asks.  “Are you okay?”

There are a lot of things Jack could say to that.  Jack could talk about how, even in the summer, even when he’s in a warm home with warm people, Montreal can be kind of exhausting.  He could talk about how hard it is seeing all of his dad’s old hockey friends, the ones who used to talk to Jack with eager voices about the future of the game and about Jack’s place in it, who even now, with a year of playing hockey in the NCAA under his belt, can’t find anything to talk about other than awkwardly discussing whether hockey training is up to par in the ECAC.  He could talk about dodging old friends when they texted him about meeting up while he was in town, because some of them are in the NHL now, and he’s still embarrassed.  He’s still deeply ashamed of the way he flamed out, and the pity in everyone’s eyes is palpable.

There’s something that’s been even harder, though, that’s been weighing on Jack’s chest for a while now, but that was worse this year than usual.  Though it’s never really good.  When hockey is in full swing and when he looks to his other wing, to the other end of his line, it’s never the familiar face he wants it to be.  When he goes home to Montreal, he drives to get gas and remembers slushies in the afternoon sun and kissing in the back of Jack’s car and hanging out in the park and going down easy for Kent in his bed, getting a break from his head and letting someone else take care of the big worries for a while.

Kenny is everywhere in that city, everywhere in his home.  This year, worse than ever.  This year, while Jack was home, Kent Parson led the Las Vegas Aces to their first ever Stanley Cup.  

As if the Calder wasn’t enough.

The scariest part, though, is that it isn’t just at home that it follows Jack.  Jack is glad he came to Samwell, is glad for the change of location.  Is glad for all the places Kent’s laugh hasn’t filled up, for all the people Kent has never met, who may know he won the Stanley Cup, but who don’t understand what he’s like.  To them, Kent is just a celebrity.  Jack is grateful for Samwell, and all the places there that Kent’s hands haven’t touched.  

But no matter where Jack goes, he will always be one of those places that Kent’s hands have touched.  He will always carry Kent’s laughter and he will always remember the way Kent was wild and spontaneous and focused and abrupt and soft and loving, more so than just about anyone Jack has ever met.  He will always remember without being able to tell anyone in his new life, and sometimes that really wears him down.

Jack has known Shitty for a year, now, and if there’s anyone he can trust with that, he thinks it might be Shitty.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it to yourself?” Jack asks.  “Really to yourself.  Not tell anyone.”

“Yeah,” Shitty says seriously.  “Of course I will.  Always, bro.  No judgment.”

Jack takes a deep breath, steels himself.  With all the talking Shitty does about toxic masculinity in hockey and all that other stuff, Jack thinks that Shitty is probably safe to tell.  But Jack talks about this so infrequently that the words still feel like a lump in his throat, one that it would be easier to swallow back down than let out.  “I was with a boy.  In the Q.”

“Oh, that’s cool, man,” Shitty says.  His hand finds Jack’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly, and Jack releases the breath he was holding.  “Thanks for telling me.  And I promise, I won’t out you.  Does anyone else know?”

“The boy does.  Obviously.  My parents know.  My therapist.  No one else.  I don’t think he ever even told his mom, things were complicated there.  And we were both headed for the NHL.”

“Not the friendliest place for a dude who likes dudes, man,” Shitty says sympathetically.  “Though, brah, you aren’t leading Samantha on, are you?  Because that isn’t so cool, man, like, if she _knows_  it’s one thing, but-”

“Not just boys,” Jack corrects quickly.  “Though I don’t think Samantha and I are that serious.  She’s pretty.  I like being around her.  But it’s not… I think sometimes I liked the guy I did so much because we were friends first.  Best friends.  If that makes sense.  Kate and I were friends before Screw.  We almost made it through hockey season, I really liked her.  Sam and I were in the same city all summer and barely saw each other.  I don’t think it’s... We mostly hooked up.  She seemed okay with that, too.”

“You could be demirom,” Shitty suggests.  “Or just have some intimacy fuckery going on still.  Especially if things went so bad with Kent.”  

He says the name carefully, like he thinks Jack’s going to be prickly with him for figuring it out.  But Jack knows that Shitty is smarter than that.  Jack knows that Shitty sees the way Jack ducks out of any and all conversations related to a certain upstart player in the NHL, the way his face goes hard.  And it’s common knowledge that Jack and Kent were inseparable on the ice.

Jack’s actually kind of relieved that he doesn’t have to debate whether to out Kent himself, even just to Shitty.

“Things didn’t go _bad_  with Kent.  Not exactly.  They just stopped,” Jack says.  “They were a lot.  Then I was in rehab, and he was in the NHL.  That was….”  Not unfair.  Entirely his fault.  Still something that Jack has boiling over in his chest, this seething ball of tightly-wound resentment that he can’t seem to unwind.  “Hard.”

“Have you ever thought about reaching back out to him?” Shitty asks.  “If nothing else, it seems like it could maybe.  I dunno.  Bring you some closure or something.”

“Not yet.”  Jack has gone over it in his head a lot of times.  “It’s been a few years now.  It’s easier just to drop it.  At this point.”

“I don’t really think that feelings work that way,” Shitty says quietly.  “Just being able to drop them and move on and pretend that having them in the first place was some silly thing you did as a kid.  Maybe they are for you, I dunno.  But for me, feelings are like.  Some sort of bacterium.  Bacteria?  Whatever.  Put ‘em in a dark place and they just grow a shit ton.  Maybe you can ignore them and have them go away, but I sure as shit can’t.”

“You should tell Ransom that one,” Jack says, and Shitty laughs, his voice a little bit dry.

“Nah, this advice is primo advice.  Just for Jack advice.”

“Thanks,” Jack says.  He pauses for a moment, thinks about it.  “I think I want them to have gone away.  The feelings.  It’s easier not to see him.  Then I don’t have to know, and I can pretend I don’t care.”

Shitty squeezes Jack’s shoulder again.  “If that’s what you need.  I just don’t think it’s something you’re really gonna be able to do the rest of your life, you know?”

Jack knows that, at the end of the day, Shitty is right.  If this all goes right, if he gets what he wants this time, then he’s going to be playing in the NHL in another couple years, and so is Kent.  He can’t pretend that if this hasn’t gone away in the last few years, then it’s going to have miraculously vanished by then, that it’s going to be any easier after another few years of radio silence to say the things he probably should’ve a long time ago, as it is.

“Someday,” Jack says.  “Someday I’ll be ready to talk about it with him.  Maybe.  Maybe I’ll even be ready to have him back in my life.”

“Guess we’ll just have to see,” Shitty says.

“Yeah,” Jack says quietly.  “I guess we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://polyamorousparson.tumblr.com).


End file.
